Of Fair Ithilien
by CrannberryCrane
Summary: Legolas and Meluien, and of the settling within the Last Garden of Middle earth.
1. Default Chapter

* * *

**Prologue**:

She is no Lady, she is no heir to any vast and hidden lands. There are no throne rooms waiting for her in the gleam of her future. But she is tall, in the willowy way of her people, with hair as dark as the night as the less poetic are inclined to say, and with eyes both depthless and full of mirrored light. Not beautiful as in the vivid dreams of song, but passable. And she is old, if her years are reckoned with the wisdom of men, but she is young among her own, and thought of as a tender sprout of young maidenhood here in the wood.

Her hands tremble as she accepts the goblet. Raising it to her lips, she does not look at him, but at his hands offering to her the chalice of their troth. The goblet has been bent and molded in touches of soft gold, with gemstones that shine harshly in the dim light of the evening. His hands are much larger than her own, and their fingers meet briefly. She shudders and swings back, only to be caught by swift hands and murmurs chiding for her to behave.

She quickly drinks the golden mead, closing her eyes as she does so. It is as light as any brew she's ever drunk before, but she finds it bitter and quickly hands it back. Moments pass, she hears voices mumbling, and the bridal veil about her head and shoulders blows up in the breeze. Its green material, as transparent as the fog of the early morning, snags on something behind her and he reaches out to free it. She follows his hand with her eyes, then looks up and away, at the trees bent overhead and the moss that hangs down about them like tapestries within a hall.

Mirkwood, they've name this place in the world beyond. It is true there are shadows hidden amidst the roots and bows, but there is also mirth and song here, and the wildflowers still dance and rise from hidden corners. It is the land of her birth and of her passing years, but it will no longer be the land of her existence. It will be a land of dreams, she realizes, and after the morrow she will only remember it in song and in thought.

She will miss it, she thinks, and the thought strikes through her breast until she falters again.

This time it is his hands that catch her own within their grasp, and his hold is tight and controlling as he keeps her from wheeling over.

"Do not fret," he says while voices drone on about them. "I will take care of you, Meluien."

His hands, she realizes, are soft despite their apparent harshness, and only his thumbs about her wrists feel rough. She wonders if his calluses are from a steady use of the bow and arrow, or if perhaps they are tokens from his journeys in the lands beyond the forest. She takes a breath and slowly raises her eyes to look at him for the first time since the start of this day.

They are both on their knees, and yet he is still taller, she notes. His hair has been pushed back with a ringlet of silver and gold, and his brow is thoughtful and clear. But though he speaks kindly, she detects his unease as easily as she does her own. She is too sorrowful to be angry with him; angry with this Elf who has taken it upon himself to settle on the banks of Anduin, to reclaim the rumored wild lands of Ithilien.

For that is his goal, is it not? To cultivate a land torn these many passing years by men and orcs and other sour, fledgling creatures. And of course, no child of princely origins can make this journey on his own. Oh, no- His people must go with him, and he must also be accompanied by a wife; a Lady to guide his impulsive hand and reign in his laughter and song with wise words.

She shakes her head and looks away: no one forced her to accept the proposal, and she realizes her thoughts are far too harsh for the moment. No one bound her and brought her to this day, she knows this. But they never told her of his planned departure from her beloved Greenwood! No, they knew it would strike her heart, and they kept it secret from her, and this she will not forgive them, especially him.

She flings her tears to the back of her soul and frowns into his upturned face. She knows there is no great love between them, and there will never be any. She was too impulsive from the start, and he played upon her desire to rise up from the provincial rows of her own forbearers. What maiden would not wish to wed a princeling? Now she must accept her path, for there is nothing else to do.

"I will take care of you" he repeats, trying best to smile and hoping this his crooked grin will ease her doubt and maybe even his own. She arches a brow, for she is long past the years of make-believe, and she knows that the world outside their borders is not as fair as it once was. Aye, even their home has turned dark at the far edges, she thinks warily.

"No, Lord Greenleaf, it is I who will take care of you."

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	2. Chapter 2

Meluien swept a hand across her dark locks, threading her fingers through the impenetrable mass with a slight frown. The early afternoon sun shone down dully across the plain; a field, really; a field of wildflowers and fledgling saplings. The jug of water at her feet was already dry and empty, and she wondered for a moment if perhaps she shouldn't head back. The other maidens had kept to the South Wood, where the dark shade had looked promising, and had shirked her desire to work amidst the drone of bees and summer warmth. 

"Whatever is the matter, Lady Meluien?"

Meluien's frown grew deeper, but she attempted to hide it with a wave of her hand. Looking up, she watched a gangly woman approach her. Edora was a maidservant in the House of Eowyn and Faramir, and liked to spend her free time amidst the Elves; getting in the way more often than not.

"Nothing is the matter, Edora. I am just deciding on whether or not to give up on this stretch of land."

Edora glanced at the far perimeters of the field and let out a laugh. "Methinks that not even an elf could bring this barren ground to life."

Meluien turned away, hiding her annoyance. She bent down towards the ground, so low that her tresses touched the dusty earth. Closing her eyes, she hoped that none of her maidens were watching, for what she was about to do all knew she held strong beliefs against. Though Greenwood's Elves all had special skills in cultivating the earth-- a whispered word here, a murmur there could send a bower of roses to the skies-- Meluien believed that it was not wise to use the power so freely. Since the Great War their power had slowly begun to diminish, and Meluien thought it wasteful to use their resources on growing fruit trees and wildflowers.

Yet Edora could be so exasperating at times…

Edora would never know just what Meluien had whispered, but later she would retell the tale with awe and wonder:

"You should have been there! She bent low to the ground, picked up some dust, whispered something-- and up came a grove of flowers. Flowers so bright and cheerful-- unlike anything you've ever seen. Come see for yourself! It's the truth I tell you!"

And of course, Edora would leave out the smile that had graced the Elven lady's face, and the laugh that had trickled from her red lips. For it was common knowledge, both among the Elves of Ithilien and the men and women, that Lord Legolas' Lady was a somber being who rarely smiled.

---

"What a lovely gown that is, Lady."

The voice was soft; pleasing to the ear, and full of good intentions. Yet Meluien's heart remained hardened to it. She nodded her head, running her hands across the soft curves of the gown. It shone in the light, and could have only been described as mother-of-pearl.

"Thank you, my Lord," she said, acknowledging his attention with a nod of her head. She turned back to her tome, hoping that he would not linger on in the room.

It was a small room, and as like the dwellings of Greenwood as possible. Flimsy green draperies hung from the beams, encasing the stone walls. The windows were large and low, and kept un-shuttered to let the light in. Ivy had found its way into the room, along with little white and yellow flowers.

Legolas sat down on a cushion. "Would you mind if I kept you company for a little while?"

Meluien shrugged. "'Tis no matter of mine where you choose to spend your evenings, as you have always known." She winced when she caught sight of his face, and inwardly chided herself. Why ever did she have to be so cruel? Had they not been wed for a year and some months already? Did he not know the far reaches of her heart and of her desires? What then was the problem; why did she have to be so cruel to the only being who had ever made an effort to please and love her?

"--I mean, my Lord, that---"

"'Tis no matter Meluien, I understand." He stood up, looking down at her, his eyes too dark to make out his mood.

She bit her lip and tried to smile. "You are welcome here, Legolas. You are my husband."

He merely nodded his head and turned to go. She did not catch sight of his forlorn expression, for she had already turned back to the book in her hands.

"Meluien, may I ask you a queation?" He asked, one hand on the door.

"Yes, of course."

"Is it true that in a certain unnamed field a certain unnamed Lady created a stir by calling forth certain unnamed powers?"

Meluien's face turned a bright shade of pink and a small smile played out across the features of her face. Legolas laughed, quietly shutting the door behind himself. It was good to see her smile once again; it had been too long since he had heard her laughter.

---

In a dark corner of a forgotten room, sat two men. Or what appeared to be two men. In truth, one was Lord and Master of Middle-earth's forgotten garden, Ithilien. The other an Elf, a race that had already begun to fade from the memories of men. Outside the walls of the room the moon shone thinly through a web of fog and scattered clouds; little of the light pierced through the room's darkness, and the two figures remained cloaked in a gathering darkness.

"How strange it is to see these barren fields and forests bloom again. You know how thankful I am to you, Legolas, and to Meluien, and to your people."

"It is I who am thankful... my people have long listened to the cry of Ithilien-- the cry of its rocks, streams, and fallen trees. It has long been our desire to ease the land back into its former glory."

"'Tis hard to believe that it has been but a year since your coming; my eyes each day light upon another miracle. How will we ever repay you?"

Legolas closed his eyes. This was not a chance meeting, for he had summoned Faramir with some intent in mind. "Faramir, as your friend, and your brother, I do not expect any repayment. We do this work out of the goodness and desire of our hearts. But there is something I must tell you."

He bent his head forward, and began to rub his hands slowly together.

"Is something the matter?"

"Yes... and no. You know that our people have been slowly leaving Middle-earth since the Final Battle. What you do not know is that not only does our power wane the longer we stay here, but so do our lives." Legolas sighed. "Let me continue. There are those of us who believe that Evil has not been laid to rest; that it has only been stilled for a time; put to sleep, if you will. It will one day creep back into the hearts of those who linger on in Middle-earth, and will resurface more powerful and harsher then ever before. My people are weakening; they know this. They ask to be released. And I cannot hold them back, however much I feel we need them here.

"I must send them away... back to their forebearers. Back to their own people."

---


End file.
